Diminished
by Yazzy
Summary: Prussia turns to England for advice on how to deal with the loss of an empire.


When Arthur walked into his house after a nice walk in the park, he didn't expect to find the door open. In fact, he was absolutely certain he'd locked it. And he hadn't left it with dents in it.

He walked inside, wondering who had broken his door and why, determined to find the culprit and give them a damn good talking to over it. Honestly, breaking a man's door!

Someone had torn one of his favourite paintings from the wall and snapped the frame and canvas in two before dropping it on the floor. That made him even more annoyed. Why would anyone break something as lovely as that picture? Unless they were some kind of tasteless heathen such a thing should be unthinkable! And there were muddy footprints all over the place!

The door of his living room was open, and again he knew he'd left it closed. He walked inside, and found something…someone, sitting in the middle of his antique rug. Thankfully the rug was still intact, if a bit dirty, but one of his lovely cosy armchairs had been removed of its legs and someone had rammed his poker through his ornamental paper screen.

He liked that screen. Japan had given him it as a present once, in return for a trip to Shakespeare's birthplace. It had flowers on it and everything. It was _tasteful_.

He approached the figure on the floor, the hunched, dirty figure, and cleared his throat. "What on Earth is all this, then?" He wasn't afraid; the poker was within reach of his hand and he'd hit enough people with it over the ages to know it was as effective as a sword. Even more effective if it had recently been in the fire.

The dirty figure uncurled, and became a man. A man covered in mud, with blazing red eyes. "Gilbert? What the devil do you think you're doing? What have you gone and wrecked my house for?"

And then Arthur realised.

Gilbert was crying. Actually crying. Tears were running down his face, diluting the mud, and those muddy drops travelled all the way down his cheeks to land – so – on the rug.

"Gilbert…" Arthur spoke with a hushed voice, as if he were at a funeral, stepping forwards uncertainly. There was something fundamentally wrong with a crying Gilbert. It was…it was as if Raivis had suddenly taken up carrying a bullwhip around with him…it was so wrong and unbelievable…

He knelt, and put his hand on Gilbert's shoulder. "What's happened? What's wrong?" Gilbert grabbed at him, pulling him down into his arms and wiping his muddy face on Arthur's shoulder.

"Y-You lost an empire too, right? So you know how it feels, right?"

"Oh…" Yes, he remembered. Diminishing and shrinking, territories and wars slipping through your fingertips, growing less and growing more too. Physically weaker, but the wiser for it. Of course, Gilbert was too arrogant and forward to consider the swapping of strength for wisdom an equal one, so…

"I'm so…I'm so small! And West's so big! I tried to start a fight with Francis just like in old times and he j-just laughed at me! He LAUGHED AT ME!" Gilbert howled. "That French bastard! HOW DARE HE LAUGH AT ME? I'M PRUSSIA!"

Arthur felt Gilbert's chest heaving, felt his rage and confusion and understood, finally, why he'd come and wrecked his house. He needed to feel powerful again, and nothing else had worked. He wondered what Prussia had tried to make himself so muddy, but thought it was better not to ask.

"It's alright."

"No it's fucking not!" Gilbert sobbed; the sound made Arthur's chest ache. Gilbert was Gilbert, indomitable and insane. He didn't _cry_. "It's fucking not! How did you STAND it, Arthur?"

"I managed, somehow. You get used to it. Oh Gilbert, please don't cry."

"I'm n-not crying! You never saw me crying!"

"But…"

"D-Don't make me hurt you, Arthur!" Arthur wondered if Gilbert had the strength left to harm him, but wisely kept the thought to himself. He sighed, holding Gilbert as tightly as he could.

"It's not so bad. It really isn't. You live on in things. You pass bits on. Like, like Alfred wouldn't speak English if it weren't for me. And Ludwig…Ludwig respects you so much, so it'll be okay. He'll always be looking to you for advice. Do you see?"

Gilbert gasped out another loud sob. His breathing settled. He slowly stopped crying, leaning back and looking into England's face.

"Do you promise?"

"Of course."

"S-So I can't go and take over anyone any more, but I can tell West to do it for me?"

"Just like commanding an army." A stubborn army with its own ideas on how things should go, but an army nonetheless.

Gilbert spread his hands over his dirty face, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and then opened them again, a familiar mad look blazing out. "I'm gonna go and take a wash and then tell West to kick Francis' ass! Later!"

He shot to his feet and dashed out, looking thinner but no less energetic than usual. England looked down at his clothes, and sighed. He was covered in mud, the rug was covered in mud, and half of his stuff had been ripped to shreds.

He was going to need another calming walk in the park, now…


End file.
